


Sparks in Small Breaths

by AllEffulgent



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Generic Female Warden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:23:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3883972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllEffulgent/pseuds/AllEffulgent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life and death with Alistair and his Warden in little pieces, in many possible angles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparks in Small Breaths

**Author's Note:**

> Almost all of the snippets are independent of each other in the timeline, and are intended to represent a generic Warden (excepting where a specific Origin is mentioned).

1.

  
They had met years ago, though neither knew it. Bryce Cousland was paying visit to Alistair's Chantry, along with the Cousland family. He was thirteen, then, and wouldn't know until much later that the ragged serving girl he taught to bash an enemy's face in with a shield was her Ladyship Cousland.  
  
2.  
  
Years later, she returns to him. Her face is warped by a long, blotchy scar. It pulls up at her mouth, giving her a permanent fearsome snarl. An arm is slung, unmoving and grey, to her chest; she limps ever so slightly. In her good hand she clutches a dirty pack. Her hair has been cut away jaggedly, apparently with a dull blade, and Alistair can smell her from the throne.  
  
"My king—" she rasps. "I have found documents...I believe they could tell us the way to reverse..."  
  
He can hardly hear her, and the queen sitting at his side shrinks away as he leans forward, almost lunges from his seat. She's so beautiful...  
  
3.  
  
There is a procession as she passes through Orzammar; some cheer her name, and many more weep at her passing. She is not dead. They will never see her again, but she is not dead. He stands at the entrance of the Deep Roads, hardly able to look at her. He forces himself to, though, to memorize every curve and line, emblazoning the light of her eyes and the grim set of her mouth into his mind. It will be the last time he sees her.  
  
4.

  
He catches her holding her hair up in a mirror and wearing a dress at Eamon's estate. She almost trips over herself when he makes himself known. She needn't have worried about a sly jibe—he calls her "my lady" and asks her to dance. He dances badly, but somehow he believes she doesn't mind.  
  
5.  
  
In the Kocari Wilds, he can't help but watch her. So strong, so graceful...he hacks the head from another hurlock.  
  
6.  
  
He absolutely never admitted this to Zevran _—much_ less her—but he does try arching his back, and, well...there were no more sudden quiets during their exertions.  
  
7.  
  
At camp, heading back to Redcliffe with Enchanter Irving. She is mediating some dispute between Oghren and the Dalish emissary—the Tranquil mage evidently not responding to the dwarf's drunken burrs. Her eyes elsewhere, he stares at her unabashedly and wonders: what if this Blight had never happened? If he were sent as a templar to the Tower? He would be like that templar, Cullen. He'd love her, but, too afraid of Circle and Chantry, only ever from afar, until all of the mage-hunting and lyrium and yearning had driven him mad and she would only look at him with pity. Was it wrong from him to be thankful? To actually peversely be grateful for the cause of so much death and despair? It was. He was selfish.  
  
Still, he resolved to tell her that he loved her, the first opportunity.  
  
8.  
  
The nightmares have returned. When he tells her, she makes him vow not to leave until she is ready as well.  
  
9.  
  
Her, leaning next to him as his chancellor. Anora at his other side, consulting him as well. He hardly glances at his wife as his love convinces him to open relations with the Chasind.  
  
10.  
  
Briefly, seeing what it is like traveling by horse. He pretends the beast is too hard from him to control, and a burden to feed and protect during the many ambushes, but it really is because he is unable to touch her or speak to her on separate mounts. And he really doesn't think she'll take him up on the offer to ride in front of him. She pretends the same.  
  
11.  
  
Early on, promising to protect the Lothering rose's beautiful rarity the same way he secretly promises to defend hers.  
  
12.  
  
Every step is draining his life, freezing his blood, but he makes his way to the sarcophagus set into the ground. It is like one of the many unoccupied ones built for Legionnaires when they finally died their forsworn death. This one, however, is hers. The door is shut behind them, never intended to be opened.  
  
He lays beside her tomb, and sets his hand over where hers would be. He doesn't care for a grave, and doesn't need one. Alistair is content now that these long weeks of standing vigilant over her grave is over, the only weeks they have been parted since they met; content that he has died a warrior's death, a Grey Warden's death... but most of all that he will join her in the Fade.  
  
13.  
  
Alistair, having a quiet, quick talk with her dog about personal boundaries. "Listen, you can't follow her _everywhere._ There are certain places that, well, sme dogs—or anyone—aren't allowed to go. Or see." The mabari growls. "No, no, no. You just...have to make yourself busy while we're—uhm—busy."  
  
14.  
  
Their very first argument. He refuses to be the one who apologizes, so they don't speak for two weeks save an occasional "Darkspawn, up ahead!" He knows she's getting ready to apologize when he hears several sighs from her direction. He relents and walks to her. "Some thing you need?"   
  
She stands and gives him a very quick kiss and whispers "I apologize." She calls her mabari to her, they get moving, and he's grinning from ear to ear.   
  
15.  
  
Morrigan looking utterly revolted as she asks her friend for use of her hut. Alistair doesn't ever know that she had planned on asking him to her tent the very night he did. And he's much to delighted and giddy to ask what they were doing in Morrigan's precarious shack and why it wasn't occupied.  
  
16.  
  
During a warm, contented night together—he starts chuckling, then giggling, then roaring madly and she starts to sit up and stare at him, wondering if the taint has done something horrible to him, or if she really was _that bad._ "What?"  
  
"D-donning the velvet hat!" he shakes out and continues laughing.  
  
17.  
  
He takes Wynne's advice, at least in part. While at Denerim, he buys her a silk dress from an Orlesian woman at the market.  
  
18.  
  
Alistair, after talking with Wynne. It's like having a mother, he imagines. Morrigan taunts him for it, but he doesn't care. If Duncan were still alive, maybe they'd marry. So what if Wynne was leaning toward the grandmotherly age? Duncan could certainly appreciate a woman of culture and wisdom. He'd go see Goldanna and have a sister, and neices and nephews as well. And Wynne's son—they can find him, and he'd be like having a brother! Alistair could marry his Grey Warden, he could definitely see himself marrying her. Like having a whole family. It's impossible, pretty pathetic—but he can't imagine wanting anything more.  
  
19.  
  
Their first night in almost a year having a bed at Arl Eamon's estate. He had nearly died when she explained coyly to Eamon that they only needed six rooms. But, then, she was making up for it _right now._  
  
20.  
  
One evening he sets her arm back into place after an unfortunate trap saw it broken. Too bad they didn't have Wynne anymore... She leans against him as he straightens her bones, shaking and gnashing her teeth. She holds him with her other arm and he says "Do you want to marry me?" She stares incredulously between her splinted arm and him. He grimaces. "I know, wrong time, I'm sorry, I don't know what I was thinking."  
  
She pants, sweating, and laughs. "Yes! Yes, yes, of course! Let's get married!"  
  
21.  
  
Redcliffe is in sight. _Maybe it won't come up_ , he thinks. _Maybe it will, it's not like I've been_ lying _to her. She never asked._ The windmill is turning lazily from where he can see. He jogs up ahead of her, halting her path, wishing it were only the two of them.  
  
22.  
  
Thinking to himself as they near Haven. He has yet to tell her about the prince problem, only because she asked if it could wait. Now he wasn't sure if there'd ever be a time. This among the list of questions he had to ask, including exactly what was her relationship with Zevran, which he planned on putting off for a long time yet (it always came out wrong in his head, like "Do you like him more than me?" or "You haven't slept with him have you?" or something equally as offensive). He's almost tempted to ask Sten for advice, but the Qunari seems rather...restless, amazingly. He wished Wynne had come.  
  
23.  
  
Traveling down the mountain of Andraste's resting place. "So...do you care that I'm, you know, some rube raised in a hayloft?" No! Wrong question! That's not what he meant to ask! "I mean, you're, you know, nobility..." He clamps his teeth hard on his tongue. Stupid, stupid...  
  
She stops and turns. Alistair isn't exactly sure what the look on her face is. "What?"  
  
"Er...I thought you knew I'm a servant girl's—"  
  
"Yes, I know that! How could you even _—That's_ what that puppy face has been for this whole time? You think I care about that? You honestly think I care who your parents are?" She sounds hurt, he thinks, but much more indignant.  
  
He feels like he's being stung by little bees of relief. He wants to smile, but the look on her face steadies that impulse. "Well...I don't know, I just thought..."  
  
"Why would you think that? I don't ask you if all you care about is my title!"  
  
"Well, maybe you should..." And there's the other foot, firmly wedged in his mouth.  
  
She's silent for a moment. A really terribly long moment and he can hear Leliana whispering to Sten behind them. "I didn't ask," she says in a low, level voice, "because I never thought I had to. Was I wrong?"  
  
"I...no...please, don't think that! I don't even think of you as nobility! I mean, I know you _are_ nobility, there's nothing wrong with that— I just— It isn't that—" Maric's son hangs his head. "Look, I'm sorry for asking. I don't think you're vain or shallow or anything like that...just the opposite, really."

She looks a little mollified. "Then why ask at all?"  
  
"Do...do you mind asking me when we're back at camp? Now...isn't really the time."  _Don't ask, don't ask...  
  
_ She pauses like she wants to argue, but nods. "Camp, then. I hope you have a good reason." He hopes she forgets.  
  
24.  
  
The was no way. Impossible. "...quite pleasurable in bed..." "Oh, you have no idea..." She was _not_ talking to Morrigan about their...their nightly adventures. No, absolutely not. His face felt like it was being blistered by darkspawn blood. Leliana, he could take, shoulder that humiliation like a man. But Morrigan _? _Morrigan?!__ How could she?! Alistair nearly whimpered in horror, thanking Andraste above that he was wearing practically a bucket over his head. He says absolutely nothing.  
  
25.  
  
People are crowding the streets and there is utter silence. They watch her funeral procession pass on. She is set atop a white cart drawn by gleaming halla—a gift from the Dalish. Her companions follow behind, somber and sad. Her body is being carried to the place where kings and princes are cremated, what Anora deemed most honorable. She led the procession, although her black-robed form was mostly obscured by more guards than strictly necessary. Why worry? There, her verminous father stood by the queen's side, vigilant. What could Anora have to fear from assassination attempts? Loghain was a hero no one dared think ill of.  
  
The bleak contingent is drawing closer. It inches steadily nearer to him, and Alistair is unsure whether to draw back or rush closer. He probably appears as if any commoner would—who would notice if his misery was much greater than they who surrounded him? Certainly the Queen and Senior Warden of Ferelden, in such high positions, would be unlikely to notice one so low as he.  
  
She is passing in front of him, like a specter. All the blush is gone from her lips and cheeks. Her face appears grim in death. No doubt magic is being used to keep up a frail facade of life only just given away. She is clothed in white robes, the filmy material of her death shroud—her armor wouldn't turn to ash, as it were. But Alistair can see a spot of color. Folded between her hands lying beneath her breast is a rose. The deep red of petals he can see, a little withered; the magic that was used to keep it lovely in its death has instead been turned to the body that holds it.  
  
Noiselessly he stumbles back, knocking away at surrounding mourners as he reached out to grab something, to steady himself from the terrible rush of anguish and shame. And, just as he did before, just exactly what he did that caused her to be lain on a byre dressed all in white, he turns and flees.  
  
26.  
  
He has a hard time sleeping. It is strange, that men he would have called peers—even his betters—for almost all of his life now look at him with quiet awe and deference. How strange it is to be king. But his mind is kept awake by other things. She offered to make the sacrifice, provided Riordan falls in battle. He hadn't known what to say then, and some wiser piece of his mind quieted anything he might have blurted.  
  
But now, alone in his room, he has come to his conclusion: no matter her protest, he will sacrifice himself in her stead. He hears footsteps coming down the hall—he recognizes them as hers. He wishes (a last wish, he thinks sadly) that he could spend the night saying his goodbyes. Telling her exactly how much he loves her every way he can, how important it is that she lives. But he can't—she'd just leave him behind. He can't say anything, just paste on a smile and say,  
  
"I see you can't sleep either."  
  
27.  
  
Sitting on the ground, cross-legged while she talks to Morrigan across the camp. Carefully, dipping the quill into the ink well and scratching down his words. Muttering to himself, "Hair like sea-spray? What doesn't that even _mean?_ " Scratching out what he just wrote, trying again. "Can laughter dance?"  
  
"What are you writing?" she says, and he flings the vellum into the campfire, quill and all.  
  
28.  
  
"So, Alistair." She approached him softly, hands clasped behind her back.  
  
He looked up from the meal he'd been trying to choke down. "Mmm?" he grunted, mouth full.  
  
She smiled sweetly. "I'm rather tired, you know? I think I'll go to sleep."  
  
He swallowed the hot soup painfully. "It's been a long day. Go ahead, I won't keep you."  
  
Inexplicably, she frowned. "It's just that it's so cold...I don't know _how_ I'll keep warm."  
  
"Um..." He searched around beside him. "Here, take my blanket." He smiled at her, holding it up, convinced she'd appreciate his gallant gesture—he'd get a pretty smile, probably a kiss. Maybe she'd even stay up and cozy up to him in the blanket. But now she looked irritated.  
  
"Well, I don't know if that's _enough,_ Alistair. I might need something bigger. Warmer."  
  
He set his food down. "I could ask Sten for his...he doesn't really use it. It's pretty big. Don't know about warm."  
  
" _What?_ No—Alistair, what?—No! I don't want another _blanket _!__ Oh—just...forget it!" She huffed and—without any provocation on his part—stomped away. " _Last_ time I ask Morrigan for advice!"  
 

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this fic a long time ago elsewhere, and I've held on to it since. Reposting it here.


End file.
